Of Cheese and Duty
by similbus
Summary: It is their last night before the final battle and Alistair is still coming into terms with the decision made at the Landsmeet. Amell/Alistair


Disclaimer: I don't own any characters, especially Alistair; though I wish he is mine.

* * *

The cheese. He definitely missed _the _Cheese.

It was totally different from the bland cheese they bought in Denerim or the hard, salty things that passed as cheese in Lothering. Redcliff cheese was thicker and richer in the mouth, filling Alistair's with the perfect balance of saltiness and dairy pleasure with every cheesy bite.

Alistair held a large chunk of Redcliff cheese on one hand, getting the smallest bite possible to make the delicacy last longer. He passed by the guards, smiling at them childishly as he offered them some of his cheese (not that he would have given it anyway). The guards did not move and, with their face hidden behind their helmets, Alistair was not even sure they were awake.

He passed by the library, half-heartedly offered his cheese to the guards without expecting them to answer, and then noticed the flickering light inside the room. Curious, he took a peek.

There she was, Amaia, buried behind a large and old book with only the light of a small candle behind her. The yellow light made tricks on her face—beautiful tricks—making her hair look like it was glowing, her skin shining like amber, and her eyes like the most precious ruby he had ever laid his eyes on. These eyes were too busy moving across the pages that they did look at Alistair until he sat across her. She smiled at him calmly as she put the book down.

"You are still awake," she said, raising one perfect eyebrow. Then, looking at the cheese in his hand, she added: "And, apparently, raiding the larder."

Alistair gave the mage a guilty smile. "What can I say? I'm a growing boy."

"That you are," she mumbled, her smile widened as she looked at the door where the guards still stood unmoving. Her distant eyes told Alistair that she was remembering a same conversation they had had; it felt a lifetime ago.

They fell silent, as if both of them were transported to that lifetime when their only problem was stopping the Blight and giving the dog a bath. Alistair's hand curled into a fist, almost crushing the cheese, as he asked the Maker why things had to become complicated. And why, of all the things that had to happen, did he had to become king.

"After this…" Alistair finally said, making Amaia slowly look back at him. "After the Blight, what... uh…what are you going to do?"

She looked down and pouted, as she always did when thinking. After a moment, she looked back at him and, as she was about to open her mouth to speak, Alistair realized that he didn't really want to hear what she was about to say. "I'm going back to the Circle."

Alistair had expected she was going to say that—didn't he overhear her conversation with Wynne and the things the elf-mage in the Brecilian said? He did not expect, however, that it would be painful to actually hear it with the same voice that had said _As long as we are together, nothing matters._

"I thought about what Aenerin said," she continued, oblivious to Alistair's growing pain. "I thought about how I can _change_ the Circle—both the mages and the templars in it. How my experiences can stop what… what happened before."

By now, the cheese had become a sticky mess inside Alistair's fist as he tried to nod; as he tried to look like he understood her. He was not sure if that worked so he forced himself to say, "Oh… to the Circle, huh?"

"Yes," she said, looking away. "I guess Wynne was right. I can never take the Circle out of me."

Alistair had nothing to say to that. He busied himself wiping the cheese off his hand with the nearest book he could find as he tried to summon the humor that had always saved him from times like these. He failed miserably. He mentally listed this moment on his long list of Failures.

"Or…" the mage said thoughtfully. Amaia's voice stopped Alistair from mentally bashing his head with a shield. She was smiling at him again which made him feel a little less of a failure. "Or, I can go with Leilana to Orlais!" she said excitedly. "I've always been curious about the shoes she was telling me about."

"Orlais?" Alistair said, his voice louder than intended. "But that's—that's so far away!"

"Maybe…" she said, teasing him with a short laugh. "Or maybe I'll ask Zevran if I can come with him to Antiva."

At this, Alistair stood up. Slamming his hands on the table, he asked incredulously: "In Zevran? With Antiva?!"

This made the guards look inside the room. Amaia was suppressing her laughter as she tried to reassure them that everything was alright. When the guards returned to their posts, the mage let out her laughter, making Alistair smile in spite of himself.

"Or..." she said in between laughter. "With—with Sten—"

"Stop! Stop!" Alistair said. He was also beginning to laugh as he watched the normally calm Amaia bent over in laughter. "I-I don't want to hear you say you'll be staying in Orzammar, drinking ale with Oghren!"

Both of them were laughing hard now. Their laughter echoed on the hallways, making it sound as if the whole castle was laughing. Alistair prayed to the Maker to let the moment last longer, even just for a moment. But, it seemed to Alistair, prayers were never really meant to be answered.

"And…?" Alistair finally asked, as their laughter slowly died down. "Is staying in Denerim not one of the options?"

Alistair started mentally hitting himself again as he watched Amaia slowly went back to the calm and collected mage that she was. She was still smiling when she looked at him but not even the dying light of the candle could hide the sadness in that smile.

"We talked about this," she said softly, putting her hand over his—the not cheese-stained one. "And it would only hurt to talk about it again."

Alistair wanted to put his other hand over hers but he suddenly became aware that it was dirty. She removed her hand and slowly stood up. Alistair watched her as she picked up the book and walked towards the shelves. He knew that she would leave for her room after returning the book and, the next time they see each other—tomorrow—he would be talking to the army as King of Ferelden and she, the Grey Warden. That's why he knew he had to try _now_.

"You know," he said, forcing a jolly tone on every word. "It is quite impossible to rule _all_ of Ferelden. The king would probably need a miracle. Or better yet _magic_."

She gave a short laugh as she put the book back into its place, but she did not reply.

"Did I say _need_? I meant _desperate_. _Desperate for magic_."

She walked towards him but stop an arm's length away from him. "Alistair—"

"How does a golden plaque sound to you?" He was speaking really fast now and he could feel that he was sweating. "A golden plaque _shaped_ like a star with your name on it. _On your door._"

"Please stop—" she began and he could see now that she was really begging.

But he could not stop. He would not stop.

"Or maybe not a golden plaque. A crier, maybe? Like the ones in Orzammar? Reminding people that you are my—_the king's…_uh…Royal Mage and Advisor!"

"But—"

"You're right, it would be difficult to sleep with that. I can get you your own tower—without templars of course. And you can practice magic without—"

He stopped as he felt her warm hands on his cheeks. She lifted his head and it was only then that Alistair realized that they were red—_really _red, as if she had just cried.

"Even if you're the king, you can't make your people less afraid of mages or the Chantry less suspicious." Her voice was soft and sad and Alistair would give anything just to put his arms around her, run his fingers through her hair, and whisper things that she may not want to hear but he wanted to say nonetheless; but something in her eyes told him that if he tried to do as such, he would only get rejected.

"I… I know," Alistair said, sighing heavily. He closed his fist harder, making his nails bite against his palm. "B-but I want you to stay. I _need_ you to stay."

"I'm sorry," she said, pulling her hands away.

_It's not your fault_, Alistair wanted to say but somehow he couldn't. A part of him knew it was her fault, as much as his. They were weak against their duties. They were weak to fight for the only happiness they know they would never have again. As he watched her walk away and disappear into the shadows of the hallway, he thought about the things he regretted.

He regretted the time he visited Goldanna and shattered his own dreams of having a warm family.

He regretted bringing her there and showing her how he shattered his own dreams of having a warm family.

He regretted how he whined about it.

He regretted not putting the cheese on a plate.

He regretted how he was not a good king.

He regretted how he kept saying things about duty and how he ended up wanting nothing more but to discard it.

He regretted that he couldn't do anything for her now—not even to die for her, because he couldn't.

Because his duty was to serve Ferelden as its King.

And, because he was weak, he would keep to his duty.

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_Author's Babble (optional read): Technically, this my 2nd fanfiction ever (and my 1st published...ever). I just can't sleep without writing a fanfiction of DA:O. I'm still in-progress with another, a longer, fanfic including Cullen (forgive me and my obsession with the mage story), which is actually connected to this one and to probably more fanfictions including Amell. Oh and I'm also writing another one, this time about the commoner dwarf story. I would've finished these earlier but work happened so... _

_ANYWAY, I've read a lot of amazing fanfictions here and I want to thank the writers for inspiring me to do the same. Keep up the good work! Woot!_


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